Able Mike Book One: Vade Mecum
by minstrelboy1976
Summary: This is a work deeply influenced by the works of H.P. Lovecraft and several other sources; starting out in the days just before World War II, a special unit is formed by the U.S. government to stop the experiments of an Occult branch of the Nazis.
1. Prologue: Decease Whispering

**ABLE MIKE**

**BOOK ONE: VADE MECUM**

_God's Apostle said, "When honesty is lost, then wait for the Day of Judgement."_

_It was then asked, "How will honesty be lost, O Apostle of God?"_

_He said, "When authority is given to those who do not deserve it, then wait for the Day of Judgement."_

- Abu Hurairah

**Prologue: Decease Whispering**

_**Approximately 42°22'S 57°16'E, Northwest of the Kerguelan Islands, the Indian Ocean**_

_**1535 hours, 29 May 1903**_

No matter how hard he fought this obsession, he could not expunge the thoughts of the device from his mind. Any momentary distraction that suppressed these notions quickly yielded and reverted back to this fixation; a primordial desire to stand in the presence of an enigmatic object recovered during an Antarctic expedition.

_I should not be here. I'm neglecting my duties as the ship's Obermaschinist_.

Over the weeks that had passed since the thing was found, innocent curiosity had slowly developed into a persistent mania that had consumed his every moment. It was as if there were maleficent voices at the back of his mind, softly whispering, lulling him into a peaceful catatonic state where every bit of his own free will had been eroded away, leaving him as malleable as a marionette tied to the hands of its manipulator. He felt helpless at the behest of this maligned influence.

_It's cold down here. And quiet. Very still._

He desperately wanted to be able to break free from this attraction and return to his own cabin, but every time he managed to stop, something continued to move his feet forward, closer to the cargo hold where the thing had been stowed.

_Am I dreaming, I wonder? The ship could not possibly remain this motionless at sea, not even if she were docked._

That thing had been found in the ice, on the desolate continent where no human civilization had ever thrived. Not, at any rate, that had been recorded or left evidence for history to reflect upon. It looked like nothing ever seen before; it had certainly not been crafted by any human hands. Least ways, not fashioned by any sane hands. The exhilaration that he had felt when he first cast his gaze upon the thing had felt like birth and death at once; as if a million stars had suddenly been thrust into his skull.

_What if they could hear what I hear?_

And since it had been brought on board the _Gauss_, the crew had taken on a more furtive, secretive demeanor. Where they had survived the cruel Antarctic winter frozen in the ice by forming a myriad of social clubs and general camaraderie, the men now had grown withdrawn and cheerless, avoiding conversation and derisively watching each other out of the corners of their eyes.

_I don't think I should be here._

Sleep hardly came anymore, and when it did, it was a wholly distressful affair, haunted by the obscene imagery of alien landscapes with its sickening, furtive motions of things that should not exist and can only be tracked at the edge of one's periphery. Inexplicable mood-altering effects emanated from this thing, as he had formerly experienced first-hand. Whatever it was and however it accomplished this feat, he could not guess. But the voices remained, and the influence grew stronger.

_What do you want from me? What can I offer to you that would be of interest?_

He wanted to burn it from his memory. He desired the discipline to jump headlong into routine and become immersed in his work, mired in the comfort of tedious toil, too engaged and distracted by duty to spare a second thought on the blasted thing. But it would not allow this. It caused him to neglect his duties without care or concern, forced him to push aside all that should be placed at precedence to devote his concentration on the thing. It desired him; it lusted for his devotion and hungered for his patronage. If only it could reach out and take him in its arms, he would give of himself freely.

_I owe everything I am to you. I would happily give my life to you, if you wished it so._

A strange scent not unlike camphor and saffron permeated the atmosphere, while he felt some sort of electrical vibration beginning to tingle through his extremities.

_Without hesitation, I could happily live in this moment for all eternity._

He was drawn forward to the hold, compelled to turn the handle and swing the door open. He could no longer avoid this insistence. A warm sense of ecstatic relief flushed over his body at its sight, and knew that everything was alright now. He felt giddy as he approached it, a sense of light-headed ambivalent amusement eroding his German sense of duty to his ship, his crew mates and his country.

_My name is Albert._

Every sound, every movement from the world outside stopped cold. Every color was drained out of life, every heart but his own ceased beating. Every image was slowly burned away into a blinding white light.

_Every final moment of my life could look exactly like this._

The crew discovered their Chief Engineer prostrate before the thing they had found in the ice. When the Medical Officer was brought to examine the body, rigor mortis had already set in, yet the body was still warm to the touch in the frigid, unheated cargo hold. There was neither sign of life left in him, nor any indication as to what had been the cause of his demise. What he had been doing in the cargo hold was also a mystery, as he had been scheduled for routing maintenance checks on the diesel engines. Some of the crew had inferred that he had been troubled and acting out of sorts lately, but he had been generally well liked throughout the duration of their journey, and no one could guess as to his motives. Captain Ruser detailed the circumstances and the Medical Officer's findings, as inconclusive as they were, in the ship's log. Later that evening, they buried Mr. Stehr at sea under a slate grey sky, and proceeded towards Cape Town with their cargo. From there, they would continue back to their home port of Kiel, Germany.

_**Unknown location**_

_**0424 hours, 7 June, 1928**_

The vision slowly defined itself, almost too slow to perceive at first. The realization that there were others in the darkness came sudden, as their images were merely shadows cast against the unlit milieu of a dank room crafted from stone centuries ago. The shades of grey were stained red and orange by the embers of a fire that had silently dwindled into smoke. Details of the setting grudgingly emerged out of the gloom. The number of figures were six, and they had formed a circle at the center of the room. All furniture had been moved out of the way, and a pedestal topped with a large, shallow dish filled with a reflective liquid stood in the center of their ring.

Sounds followed the preceding imagery; a guttural, primeval and rhythmic chanting, too low to recognize, but changing in pitch and quality at an irregular rate. The tone and timbre emanating from the six individuals brought forth a vague sense of what could only be described as a passive urgency. They were searching for something - that was clear now - by routes normally reserved for those owning certain rarefied abilities and perceptions of the world not held by the general public. Acuities attuned to the secretive and lesser known realities of the world and its varied histories, honed throughout several lifetimes of practiced discipline.

The bond between these beings is unusually strong, something more analogous than shared familial traits. Their bond is the source of an uncommon power, coupled with an already advantageous matrix of uncharacteristic strengths. Buried within the mantra of their monotone cadence is a veiled request that will not be denied, a call out to awaken a source of an otherworldly influence only recently revealed.

Their voices begin to take on a certain clarity, the language spoken strangely familiar, yet alien in quality. Their combined insistence compelling the information they seek to present itself to the group, as their authority builds to its full strength, forcing submission upon the interstices of time and space. It opens up and yields their truths to the six, reflected in the still water of their scrying pool. A location emerges; the Rhine Province in the Weimar Republic. A village known as Mülheim an der Ruhr, within a castle known as Broich.

A quarter of a century had passed since it was discovered and released from its brumal captivity, only to be lost in the midst of a world war and forgotten in the aftermath of darkness, where it patiently waits.

It has been discovered again. In the darkness, six faces look up to face one another, and in their mirrored visages the same eagerness is reflected. In the darkness, six faces that are one in the same smile knowingly.

"It is time, brothers," one of the six avers.

"Time to return home to Germany," responds another.


	2. Part One: Twin Dirge, Chapter One

**Part One: Twin Dirge**

_**Somewhere Northeast of the Shetland Islands, the Norwegian Sea**_

_**1440 hours, 29 May, 1938**_

Raymond Burgess studied the steel grey sea below. He'd remained in the same position for over an hour; leaning against the Duralumin hull, his right arm resting over the port side window, his forehead pressed against it while his eyes scanned the unkind waters beneath him. He'd already suffered a succession of several mild concussions by having his head bashed into the thermoplastic window from turbulence before he settled into this current position, which afforded him the least amount of discomfort. The least amount of discomfort is the best you could hope for as a passenger on this flight. The droning of the twin 920 horsepower Pegasus X engines that carried the R.A.F. Supermarine Stranraer through the air had caused him to slowly and painfully become temporarily deaf; a sort of mixed blessing, because while the unbearably noisy engines had receded to the background, there still remained some sort of ringing stuck in his ears. The vibration of the entire plane felt like an electric current coursing through his body, which only lessened while the craft was frequently buffeted by severe crosswinds.

Still, he and the other crewmembers had a job to do, however unlikely it may be that they find success.

The tips of the waves were frosted white with foam, discernable from their altitude. You would think that picking out an object the size of a human body against a mostly single-colored backdrop from 3,000 feet wouldn't be too difficult, but when trying to cover a region the size of the southern Norwegian Sea, a surface area of well over a half of a million square kilometers, the likelihood of discovering something so comparatively small dropped off to virtually nil.

He could tell they were circling around again because the shadow of the Stranraer crossed his field of vision. As he looked up temporarily to the horizon, he thought he spotted something. He squinted and reached for the Bausch & Lomb field glasses that he had strung around his neck, yelling at the pilot to steady and hold position.

The R.A.F. captain turned back in his seat, shouting over the racket of the roaring engines and the tumultuous winds battering the craft. "What!"

Raymond turned to yell directly at him, trying to hold his line of sight to the area where he thought he'd seen it. "Hold position!" he yelled back, and returned to his window, bringing the binoculars up to his eyes. It was difficult to keep them steady, and the magnified image he saw through the eyepieces darted back and forth like an angry hornet stirred out of its nest. He managed to hone in on the location he was looking for, holding it steady long enough to confirm that something was there. Too far away to tell what, though; probably more debris, he thought. They'd already had several departures from their pre-planned search path only to get a closer look at some wreckage floating below.

He moved forward to the cockpit between the pilot and co-pilot to indicate that they should steer off to the left. He remained there, watching through the front windscreen until the indeterminate speck became more discernable. He pointed, and they continued towards it, gradually descending to about 500 feet. As they came up on it, the pilot tilted the left wing downward to give them a clearer view through the port side window. Flying directly over it, they looked down into a makeshift raft that contained a single figure huddled up on its side.

Premature exhilaration welled up. There's only one, thought Raymond, and they aren't trying to get our attention. Not a good sign.

The pilot brought the plane around again and prepared to land. He made several attempts to contact their controller over the radio, but only received bursts of static in response. They were approximately fifty miles northwest off the coast of Unst, the northernmost of the main Shetland Islands, searching an area where a merchant ship had recently been. But upon discovering the drifting wreckage of it two days ago, the search party turned their focus from looking for a ship to looking for the survivors of a shipwreck, the likelihood of which hadn't been very optimistic from the start.

The co-pilot noticed Raymond still standing next to him and yelled something at him that he couldn't quite make out, and as the pontoons made their first contact with the sea, Raymond nearly rammed his face into the array of gauges, knobs, levers and selectors that made up the console as the forward momentum of the craft suddenly decreased. Understanding dawned on him, and he climbed back into the main hold without having to be told by the co-pilot a second time. There were another five or six jarring impacts that he had managed to brace his self against before the plane finally settled upon the rolling surface of the sea. The engines revved and then steadied, throttling down to idle and then shutting off. The two-man rescue crew unlatched and opened the side hatch, throwing their collapsible canvas life raft out the door opposite of Raymond, where it instantly unfolded and landed on the water. The raft was tethered to the plane by a thick cord of oiled sisal, which the other spotter, a crewmember named Jeffries, used to keep the raft in position as the rescue team hopped into it and rowed out to the derelict craft.

Raymond stood at the starboard door with Jeffries watching them row out, waiting to assist them when they returned. As he watched, he saw the solitary figure in the damaged lifeboat sit up, and he felt a rushing tide of relief.

As the rescue team transferred him to their boat and paddled back to the Stranraer, Raymond glimpsed the cold, tired, stubbled face of special agent Eric Stillwell. It had been well over two years since the last time he had seen him. His hair was longer, and he looked pale and withdrawn from exposure, but otherwise, he looked the same. Bracing himself in the doorway, he waited, ready to lend an arm to facilitate Stillwell up and into the sea plane's fuselage. The two rescuers helped him climb through the hatch while Raymond and Jeffries grabbed his arms and heaved him upward and inwards. They slowly helped him towards the rear of the plane to lie down. Stillwell moved stiffly, shuffling his feet and shivering in the comparative mild coolness of the interior of the craft. After he sat down on a makeshift cot, the spotter returned to the door to assist hauling the life raft back into the plane's hold. In the background, Raymond heard the pilot trying to reestablish radio contact with their home port.

"You're lucky, you know?" Raymond spoke unnecessarily loud, his ears still ringing.

Stillwell's head bobbed slightly as his eyes rolled in their sockets, trying to focus. He finally managed to aim them mutually in a single direction, and it seemed for the first time he recognized his old friend. Looking up at Raymond, he smiled and weakly replied, "They already told me that," pointing at the rescue team. It was apparent that he had taken a beating sometime in the recent past; he had various cuts and abrasions that had scabbed over on his face. The flesh immediately surrounding his eyes were mottled blue and purple, and his lips had blistered and peeled. He also reeked of diesel fuel.

The rescue team had gotten their raft back onto the aircraft, and the one named Chesterfield came back to check on Stillwell while the other one, Novak, collapsed and stowed the raft with help from Jeffries. Pulling out his kit, Chesterfield prepared an I.V. "If you want to help," he crisply advised, "then get him out of those wet clothes and dry him off. Help keep him warm before he completely goes into shock. There are blankets there," he indicated a bank of compartments between a row of bulkheads. "Otherwise, please stay out of the way."

Raymond retrieved three heavy wool blankets, and started to strip Stillwell out of his shirt. He pulled the jersey up over his head, and after he finished pulling his arms through, he found himself staring at two terrible looking deep gashes across his abdomen that had reopened and begun to slowly bleed again. "Good God, Stillwell!" he exclaimed.

Stillwell ignored Raymond's shock. "Go easy," he calmly advised him with the demeanor of a drunk. "I think I've got a fractured rib."

The medic peered around his patient to view the damage that had startled Raymond so much. After securing the catheter to Stillwell's arm to begin the I.V. drip, he laid him down on his side with his back facing him and opened a packet of sulfa powder, which he poured over the wounds before bandaging them. "Get those pants off and start rubbing his feet to keep his circulation going," he instructed Raymond as he draped one of the blankets over Stillwell's shoulders.

Raymond silently nodded and loosened the oilskin gaiters, pulling the gumboots from Stillwell's feet, then unbuttoned and removed his dungarees, covering him up with the two remaining blankets. He grabbed his feet, rubbing them vigorously, bringing warmth and sensation back into them. After about fifteen minutes of Chesterfield tending to various other wounds and Raymond warming him up and preventing him from falling asleep, some of the color had started to return to their patient's cheeks and lips.

The medic finally felt it was safe enough to get back into the air and return to land where they could administer more thorough medical treatment. The quiet calm was wiped away by the sound of the engines sputtering to life, and after they had settled at a steady idle, the pilot began to increase the throttle of the craft until it proceeded to increasingly lurch and buck as it cautiously moved across the uneven surface of the sea. Raymond fought to restrain himself and Stillwell at the same time against the jolting ride until it broke free and started its ascension. After a brief struggle to get airborne, the plane leveled off at 6,000 feet, heading southeast.

"So what happened?" Raymond had moved in close to Stillwell, speaking loud enough to be heard by one another, but not loud enough to be heard over the engines by the rest of the crew. He knew that his debriefing would officially begin after his medical needs had been attended to, but there was an urgent need to establish what the threat had been. If actions needed to be taken, then it would be best if they were set in motion the instant he got back on the ground.

Stillwell's eyes stared straight up at the ceiling of the fuselage as if he hadn't heard a word. Then he shrugged and responded, "I couldn't tell you. Me and Finnegan and Lawson were making our way to Iceland on a diesel-converted Clyde Puffer named the _Pictish Pebble_. Our first evening out, I was on deck when the whole thing just blew up." He paused, as if the realization of the event had only now dawned on him. His eyes went out of focus momentarily before he regained his train of thought, and continued. "I was knocked out and thrown clear. I came to quick enough to see her aft section go down." He shrugged again, speculating. "Saboteurs? U-Boat? Accident? Who knows what happened. The mission failed, my team died." Then he bitterly added, "I didn't."

Raymond sat on the edge of the cot next to Stillwell, watching him. He lay there with a stoic expression upon his ragged face, as if he had just announced that he was going for a walk. He struggled to come up with a few words of comfort. "You couldn't have done anything. I know a man like yourself will never believe that, but there will always be variables out of your control, especially in this line of work."

"I know that," he placidly replied, "but I don't have to like it."

The wind whistled through the drafty sea plane. Raymond rubbed his hands together in an effort to keep them warm. "No, you don't," he agreed. "And you don't have to put up with it either. You can get out at any time. Just say the word." He sat there, waiting for a response. He knew that Stillwell didn't like his job, but he was driven to do it, because at this point in his life, it was all he had and if he walked away from it now, he'd eventually come back because he'd miss the purpose it gave him. He'd tried it twice before, and came back within two weeks both times. When no response came, he told him, "There's a new job coming up. Something a bit different from what you've been doing. I need to know if you're interested."

He lay there, periodically blinking. Thinking. "What else am I going to do?" he asked, more to himself than to Raymond, and rolled back onto his side, effectively ending their conversation.


	3. Part One: Twin Dirge, Chapter Two

_**The Renaissance Mayflower Hotel, Washington, D.C.**_

_**1815 hours, 12 August, 1938**_

The sun was beginning to set earlier with each successive evening. Autumn would be here soon enough, and as the days progressed, the daylight would diminish in the same fashion. As will our chance to prepare an effective counter-offensive against the common enemies of humanity. While time slips away, the chance for a swift and decisive resolution of these soon-to-be events becomes less likely.

These thoughts passed through the mind of Professor Albrecht Bern as he stood overlooking the corner of 17th and DeSales Streets from his tenth story window. He had never been an impatient man, but reports days old continually apprised him of circumstances unfolding on the opposite side of the Atlantic that made him feel ineffectual and defeated, his hands tied up by red tape, skepticism and general disinterest. What good are governments and bureaucracies when they fail to act swiftly enough to thwart foes that favor action over council? He wrung his hands in frustration as he observed the Americans below, outwardly oblivious to the events unfolding far away in Europe.

The summer air washed over him, unbearably thick and oppressive. It caused him to momentarily languish for the cool evenings at his home in Aylestead-on-Thames against the backdrop of the British countryside. There had been a thunderstorm earlier in the afternoon that had brought heavy rains, compounding the intolerable humidity. As the sunlight faded and the streets began to light up, the commotion of insect life continued to chirrup and murmur unabated over the din traffic below.

As resilient as our enemy, he mused.

It had taken nearly four months and two continents to get to this point, and having finally gained the support of the Americans, it would take even more valuable time to assemble and train the men who would be tasked with the duty of combating this incomparable threat. Even now, as he stood facing the east, it could already be too late. He sighs and wonders why responsibility typically falls to those who agree to bear its burden, when he feels a presence move behind him.

"Whad'ya say, Professor?" The unseen figure greets him through clenched teeth and strikes a match against the sole of his shoe. He pulls the flame towards the pipe jutting out of his face and holds it above the meerschaum bowl, drawing air through its stem until it begins to emit smoke. He extinguishes the match with a flick of his wrist and tosses it into an empty ashtray. Then he works on keeping the plug of tobacco lit. Once satisfied, he concludes by asking, "You think we're ready for this?"

It was Major Cartwright Thune; Albrecht knew this, of course, because they shared conjoined rooms at the hotel. But even if he hadn't recognized the voice, he could have identified him by the strong, fruity aroma of the Perique and green river burley blend of tobacco he smoked. He paused halfway through turning to face the officer, considering the question for a moment as if he could logically formulate an exact answer.

"Well, we've got to be, haven't we?" He answered with an English-educated accent, but his native German tongue perforated his words with a faint staccato, a strong contrast to Cartwright's easy southern drawl. "We've all got to be ready, and as soon as possible. Not an ounce less than total victory, lest we face a peril far greater than some overgrown dictator with a penchant for world domination."

Cartwright sensed the rigid tension that enveloped Albrecht. He smiled, and added, "World domination _and_ stupid-looking moustaches."

Albrecht managed a feeble smile, but he regarded his friend, who stood before him with his hands crossed over his chest and smoke emanating from his calabash pipe. He knew that the young major was up to speed on the current events transpiring in Europe, as they discussed the topic regularly. He also knew that Cartwright understood that this Hitler fellow, while a publicly charismatic and fervently eloquent leader, was a dangerously ethnocentric, maniacal tyrant driven by his inner demons and maligned world view. Yet Albrecht also recognized that his friend did not possess all of the facts that he himself had managed to gather to come to the conclusion that had spurred him to entreat definitive action against the land of his birth. Cartwright was a soldier, and while he would execute the orders that were given to him, Albrecht wondered how significantly he struggled with the moral implications of the directives he was instructed to carry out.

Cartwright shrugged, steering the conversation back onto the singular path that the professor always drove straight towards. "Yeah, well I imagine that we'll all be drawn into another world war before all is said and done."

Albrecht scoffed, retorting, "Man's wars to quench man's thirst for power. These will continue to erupt across the globe for as long as humanity is allowed, or allows itself, to exist." He clenched his jaw in anger, the tendons in his neck standing out like guide wires to a telephone pole. "Trivial pursuits when compared to the grand scheme of all universal existence," he finished, furrowing his brow and turning away, already feeling foolish for losing his temper.

"Now look, Al," proffered Cartwright in the same steady monotone he used to address all situations, "I know there's a limit to the amount of information you're able to share with me. I've been your liaison since you came here two months ago, and I've had no problem taking care of you as long as that was all that was in the job description." His left arm reached around the back of his head to scratch at the stubble of his two day-old haircut. "But the situation's changed since this morning, now that you've personally inducted me into your little crusade. I'm starting to realize that I haven't the slightest notion as to what the hell you've been trying to accomplish this whole time. And I'm starting to wonder when the other shoe is going to drop and how heavy it's going to be."

Nodding in accord, Albrecht attempted to explain his actions to his friend, knowing that even if he could divulge the entire reality of the situation to him at this very moment he would, like most others incapable of grasping the spiritual and esoteric truths of the universe by the parameters of modern enlightenment, refuse to believe it. "While it's true that I've purposefully shrouded my actions from you as need warranted, I've also been assessing you and have determined that you are the exact type of fellow needed to form the core leadership of this group of brigands. Your unobtrusiveness into the nature of my business has been most gentlemanly, while your dependability and fortitude are second to none." He paused for a moment before adding, "You're quite like a prototype, really. You should feel honored."

"Hell," expostulated Cartwright, sheepishly concealing the grin spreading across his face, "you should get a second opinion before you go into all of that."

"No, no," argued Albrecht, "I mean it wholeheartedly."

After a brief moment of silence, Cartwright asked, "There's more going on over in Germany than what's in the news, isn't there?" He has walked across the room to stand next to Albrecht, and they both lean against the window pane and look out into what was rapidly becoming the night sky.

"As history has often been edited by the victors, so is our present altered by the deceit and vanity of those in power." He absently tugged at the corner of his moustache, explaining, "What is happening in Germany today is indistinguishable to many other similar trials that have passed in the history of our race. But beneath the veneer of this maligned party patriotism, there are events unfolding that could alter our world permanently if left unchecked." He stared out into the evening impassively, adding, "I've glimpsed into terrible, black chasms of madness that no mortal should ever face. The knowledge I possess, the terror I know, I would never wish on another living soul, were it in my power to keep it from happening." The embers of Cartwright's pipe smoldered and audibly hissed in the momentary silence as he drew another mouthful of smoke. When Albrecht spoke next, his intonation faltered apologetically. "If only it were in my power, I'd save us all. But I'm unable to do it alone, and for this failure I apologize to you."

Taking the pipe from his mouth, Cartwright turned and looked at the professor through narrow eyes. The man he saw before him looked unexpectedly frail and dispirited, significantly older than the 42 years of age Professor Bern claimed, and for a moment he thought that somebody else was standing next to him. But then he blinked and the temporary illusion was gone. "You make it sound as if we don't have a chance," he flatly stated. "How can we win against something so seemingly insurmountable?"

Albrecht's eyes suddenly flashed, darting like two bolts of lightning. "There are ways," he reassured the major. "There are always ways through the darkness; knowledge handed down from civilizations erased from history, resources that are revealed to those that dedicate their lives to enlightenment. In my life," he explained, "I've sought out the answers to questions most never trouble to ask. As a result, I've been a witness to many revelations, both wonderful and terrible." He smiled sadly in reflection. Then he placed his hand on Cartwright's shoulder, bolstering him before uncertainty began to take hold. "And you, my friend, will soon walk beside me down this profound and unfathomable path. We will protect one another."

And then nobody spoke for a while. The night had finally descended, a bombazine shroud to blanket the earth as the day dwindled to an end. Various Packards, De Sotos, Fords, Pierce-Arrows and Studebakers clattered and droned in succession over the streetcar rails beneath the glow of lamp posts and neon lights far below.

It was Cartwright who broke the silence. "I've spent the last two months with you, and I feel like I've gotten to know you pretty well, but I feel like I don't know anything about you. I mean, your business is your business. But if we're going to protect each other, then maybe you should tell me about yourself. Your family."

"I have no family," Albrecht responded matter-of-factly. "They are all gone." Cartwright apologetically offered his condolences, but Albrecht brushed them aside. "I dearly love and miss my family, but I do not mourn them, nor do I feel anger at them being taken away from me. Death is not the end of life, merely a part of human evolution. Beyond this world lies infinite mysteries that we of mortal stock, stranded here temporarily in these crude vessels, are unable to comprehend."

"I couldn't imagine," ruminated Cartwright.

Albrecht shrugged nonchalantly. "It shouldn't be so hard. We'll all one day pass from this life to the next. It's inevitable. Even you as a soldier should understand and prepare for this." Here he turned to face his friend and spoke candidly. "I must confess that until recently, I held a biased view of the military as a barbaric society that lent itself to those with an inherently violent nature. And while I still believe this to be partly true in some instances, having spent a vast amount of the last two years of my life working alongside those with military backgrounds for a common goal, I see now that most are generally honorable men. Ordinary men, some of whom do extraordinarily selfless things. The very least of them are no different than those seeking employment through normal lines of work; husbands and fathers, sons and patriots. The true barbarians are the political leaders and parties of nations over the world that wield their military forces with little thought of the carnage and brutality that war exposes all of humanity to, in exchange for their own self-important ideals and advantage."

Cartwright wagged his head from side to side as if he were weighing the points of Albrecht's statement before agreeing. "Yeah, that's about it in a nutshell…"

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his wool trousers and leveling his shoulders with his ears, the professor continued saying, "Yes, well I see that war is sometimes a very necessary evil in a world fraught with endless iniquities. And on occasion men such as you and I must stand up and be counted for to prevail against these dark forces conspiring to plunge our world into eternal darkness."

"Well, we're on our way, aren't we? Congress agreed to support you in whatever it is you've been trying to do, and General Craig himself gave you his blessing." Cartwright absently scratched at the side of his nose. "What is this S.P.R. group that you and Mr. Denning were talking about?" he wondered aloud. A fat pigeon the color of a cinderblock descended from above to land on the window sill before fluttering off in consternation as it was shooed away by the major.

Albrecht's instantaneous reaction was to defer to the tight-lipped deniability that he had sworn to keep when he first went to work for the Government Code and Cypher School and the newly formed Joint Intelligence Committee. But why? The S.P.R. was no secret, it was a public organization. And Major Thune had become the first official member of this newly christened as yet unnamed military unit. What possible reason would be served by withholding information with somebody already so involved? He had said it himself, hadn't he? We will protect one another. "I was introduced to the Society for Psychical Research while attending Eton College at Windsor, and it was after my induction into this enlightened group of intellectuals that my education truly began."

There was a knock at the door to Albrecht's room, interrupting them. He crossed the floor of the suite and opened the door to reveal a stoic-looking soldier in Army khakis with corporal stripes. "Professor Albrecht Bern?" he inquired.

"Yes," answered Albrecht.

The soldier looked at him with an unblinking expression you could use to pile drive a fence post. "I.D., please?" he requested.

"Of course," Albrecht acquiesced, fishing out a laminated security clearance authorization freshly stamped by the Department of War. The corporal takes it from his hand and analyzes it for authenticity. Satisfied yet somehow disappointed, he returns Albrecht's badge and hands him a manila envelope. He brusquely turns on his heel and walks away from the door with an extreme impersonal military efficiency that hypnotizes the professor until he disappears around a corner. Closing the door, he opens the envelope and produces a set of papers. After glancing them over, he explains, "Our tickets. We're leaving by train first thing tomorrow for Montauk, Long Island, New York. A place called Fort Hero." He looks to Cartwright. "Well, friend, it seems as if we'll be starting work tomorrow post haste." He then handed them over to Cartwright to look them over himself.

"Fort Hero?" he frowned. "I've never heard of it."

Albrecht arched an eyebrow. "I've heard it mention of Montauk before in my circles. It's one of several places within New England that are of interest to the S.P.R."

Returning the papers to the professor, Major Thune asks, "What do they do?"

Albrecht looked at him with a blank expression.

"The S.P.R.?" he clarified.

"Do?" considered Albrecht. He mulled the question over, deliberating on how to answer a query that on the surface sounded simple, yet was in fact as complex and convoluted as anything that could be inquired about quantum mechanics or the human nervous system. "Well, they are a group of experts in certain specialized fields who conduct experiments and research in areas of certain unconventional science, searching for truths that might illuminate and propel humanity beyond some of the more barbaric ignorances our society has clung to throughout the supposed advancement of our species. I only hope that the men selected for this group are able to accept the teachings of the S.P.R. with an open mind and the utmost seriousness."

Cartwright screwed up his face in a physical attempt to understand what the hell he had just been told, and it was obvious to Albrecht that his explanation had only confused the major. He made an effort to simplify it a bit further; "They investigate events and abilities that aren't easily explained by commonly accepted scientific beliefs. Psychic abilities, spiritual contacts, etcetera," he said, summing up his clarification with a flourish of his hand. And as Albrecht witnessed understanding penetrate Cartwright's mind, he watched as skepticism unfolded over his face.

"You mean hoodoo like ghosts and such?" he asked with a heavy measure of cynicism.

Albrecht maintained his visage of absolute earnestness. "You will soon learn that with every answer you receive, a thousand additional questions will germinate. Just because a thing is not understood does not mean that it doesn't exist. There is much that takes place on this world that men of science are unable to explain, and this is merely one planet in a universe of countless billions. Just within this last decade astronomers have discovered the ninth planet Pluto within our own solar system." He looked at Cartwright with the look a father might give a child that just discovered that fire burns. "Never underestimate the limits to the knowledge of man. After all, we still haven't evolved beyond the primeval desire to kill others for not conforming to our own beliefs."

Cartwright reconsidered his initial reaction and felt somewhat inelegant and dense. Professor Bern saw the dejection reflected upon his face, and attempted to reassure him. "Every grain of knowledge an individual gains displaces a modicum of ignorance. I have every bit of faith that you'll be an adept student." He checked the Ulysse Nardin Marine Chronometer on his wrist. It was near 7:00 PM, and if they were leaving early in the morning, then they should both start packing their things. He looked around his room and realized that he had a significant task before him; there were endless stacks of books, portfolios and other jacketed records, piles of clean and dirty laundry, and several makeshift work stations with a variety of projects at different stages of progression.

"Alright, alright," Cartwright entreated lightheartedly, holding his hands up feigning a defensive posture, "I got you. I need to get my stuff packed up too. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, goodnight," Albrecht replied, his mind already shifting back to the thoughts he'd been immersed in before he was interrupted by the major. He watched him pass through the adjoining door and shut it behind him. Then he observed his shadow pass over the light peeking across the threshold several times before turning back to the window, observing the night sky. Between the clouds he could discern a handful of white pinpoints, starlight glittering through the infinite blackness of space.

He sighed significantly, and then turned to packing his belongings.


End file.
